Best Laid Plans
by FishwichForMyLove
Summary: America has big plans for a Christmas proposal, but things just aren't going his way. Will the quest for the "perfect moment" prove too challenging?


**A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for 2 years and I never managed to get myself together enough to edit and post it for Christmas. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The ring had been burning a hole in America's pocket for almost six months. Metaphorically, anyway. Really it had been burning a hole in a tiny black shopping bag in the back of his closet for six months, but that made it seem like he was hiding it, like he was unsure. He'd never been more sure in his life, which was either long or short depending on how you looked at it. The point was that he was sure. He wanted England, forever, or for whatever their equivalent of forever could be. But he was also sure that the question had to be asked at the perfect moment.

A thousand moments had passed them by, none of them worthy in America's eyes. Maybe it was the Hollywood in him, that vision of the ultimate romantic scene that came before the credits rolled and everyone knew that happily ever after was a given. It just sucked ass waiting for it.

He was done waiting. If the moment refused to present itself, he'd just have to make it himself. And Christmas seemed like as good a time as any.

* * *

The glow from the decorated houses lit up England's face with a rainbow smattering of colors. He pointed at something in the intricate winter scene on the lawn before them, turning to America with a smile that put the strands of megawatt lights to shame. England said something, but America couldn't hear him over the sound of his heartbeat banging around in his ears. He exhaled a laugh that he hoped was appropriate, his breath frosting away in a burst of cloud. It seemed like a good enough response since England took his arm and snuggled against him, and they continued their gentle stroll down the block of decorated houses.

America had been suffering heart palpitations for the last 20 minutes, half because he knew the moment was approaching and half because he was worried England would know something was up. But England was oblivious and happy, beaming brighter than America had seen in a while. They blended in perfectly with the other couples walking around the neighborhood, everyone bundled up in coats and hats and scarves and each other. America felt like he was about to burst from the love inside him and about to be crushed by the love all around him. For a good feeling, it sure made his stomach hurt.

Every house was beautiful, an endless parade of lights and colors and music. He could have proposed at any one of them, and half worked himself up to do it every time they stopped to take in a new glittering house. But then they reached the house at the end of the cul-de-sac. It was done up exclusively in white lights, millions of diamond pin pricks twinkling warmly against giant red ribbons and wreaths and around a beautifully decorated tree in the yard. The entire house radiated a heavenly glow, something old fashioned and romantic, and America knew there would never be a better time.

It took a tug of his hand to pull England's wistful focus away from the lights, and then America was three times as nervous as before. If England noticed anything strange, he didn't show it, looking at America with an expression so soft that America couldn't do anything but kiss him. England made a muffled noise of surprise, and America pulled back, trying to get control of the wild mix of feelings boiling him from the inside out.

"Sorry, I—"

"No, not at all," England interrupted, cheeks and ears pink as he glanced at the other pairs walking around them.

"I was just…"

"Yes?"

"Um."

America shook his head to clear his thoughts, but that only seemed to rattle the fuckers around and jumble them all up. He took a deep breath, shoving his hands into his pockets. His right hand found the hard velvet corners of the ring box, and his ears buzzed as a wave of dizziness fell over him.

"So, listen," he finally choked out, in a voice that was probably far too loud. "It's really beautiful out here and I'm really happy that you're here and we're together for it—"

"Me too," England said with a tender smile, and put a hand on America's arm. "Thank you for this, it's been—"

"Wait, let me, um, finish." America winced at how stupid that sounded, but thankfully England didn't interrupt again. "I know I'm not that good with words sometimes, but I've been wanting to do this for a long time and I love you so much, so—"

But England wasn't paying attention to him. He was looking up with a quizzical expression and holding one palm to the sky. America's heart sank and he looked around as slowly but surely every other person on the block looked up in disbelief at the sudden rain. A few droplets turned into a deluge in only moments, and then everyone was scrambling to get back to their cars.

"C'mon!" England called, grabbing America's hand and dragging him into a jog to hurry out of the rain.

For a split second America debated stopping and pulling England against him, knocking his socks off with the perfect kiss-in-the-rain moment, and then dropping to one knee and whipping that ring out like the hero he was. But England was hunched up and shivering like a wet cat and the sidewalks were quickly turning into a slick mess of dirt and leaves. Even the lights began to disappear as the homeowners switched everything off for the night, one by one.

All they could do was huddle up in the car with the heat on full blast and head home. The moment was gone.

* * *

"I'm going to fall!"

"You are not! I've got you."

America took England's hand and pulled him out onto the ice rink. There were a half dozen other couples circling the ice and a few families, all talking and laughing over the music blasting out of the speakers. The air was crisp and fresh, soft sunlight coming down through the tall pines ringing the rink, lights and a few ornaments hanging from their lower branches. It smelled like popcorn and apple cider, warm and comforting. It was just as picturesque and romantic as America's previous attempt to propose, and his stomach was in knots again. But this time he was determined to make it work.

"That doesn't make me feel any better," England quipped as America got tripped up by his own thoughts and almost stumbled, free arm flailing to catch his balance again.

"Take it easy on me," he laughed, and gripped England's hand tighter. "It's been a while since I've done this."

"Same for me. I don't think I've done this in decades."

"Well, I'm happy you're here with me now."

England scrunched up behind his thick scarf, half-hiding his smile. He bumped America's shoulder teasingly, pushing him off balance for a moment with a laugh. America cheered inwardly, knowing he'd done something right if it triggered England's stubborn awkwardness. It was almost better than when he got all sappy and lovey-dovey. Almost.

They skated around and around the little rink, people-watching and talking about nothing in particular. America's excitement mounted higher and higher, which had the unfortunate effect of twisting his stomach up even worse, now with the added bonus of sweat. England was just as adorably oblivious as before, cheeks and ears blushing from the cold, and never losing that special smile that America knew so few people in this world had been lucky enough to see.

At one point, England suddenly lifted their joined hands and pressed his lips to the back of America's glove, and America thought he could die on the spot from being so in love. He couldn't take it any more. The sun was just starting to set through the trees, and not a cloud was in sight. The center of the ice was clear. It was time. Gently he switched their course away from the edge of the rink and pulled England toward the middle.

"What are we—?"

"Hold on you'll see."

America got them centered on the perfect spot and faced England. He tried to shift his weight so he could kneel, but his feet didn't quite cooperate, and he ended up lurching forward into England. He caught America under the arms just in time, slipping backwards as he propped him back up with a laugh.

"Easy there!"

America laughed self-consciously and adjusted his crooked glasses, sure that he'd ruined the moment again. But there was England, holding onto him and looking at him with that same expression that made him melt all over again.

'God, I love you," he breathed out, and kissed England's forehead. He would have kissed him full out, but he wasn't sure he could keep his balance with the rush of adrenaline and emotion messing with his entire body.

"I love you, too," England replied, no trace of shyness or concern for the public setting this time.

America took his hands in his own, deciding to forgo the whole knee situation and get to the point. He looked down at their gloved hands and wondered for a moment how he was going to get the box open and get the ring on England's finger, but was too impatient to focus on it much. That was a concern for future America, 2 minutes from now. Present America just wanted to propose.

"England, I—"

"LOOK OUT!"

America barely had time to register the small boy careening towards them before there was a flurry of limbs and several thuds, one being America's knee as it smacked into hard ice. It wasn't the way he'd wanted to end up one knee, which was now throbbing, and he definitely had not planned on the flailing child holding onto him for dear life. But he felt extra terrible when he saw that England had fared worse, knocked over and landing hard on his ass, a shocked, winded look on his face.

Worried parents hurried over to collect the mortified child, and there was an endless loop of apologies as America and England both struggled to get back on their feet without face-planting. By the time they managed to get off the rink, England had gone a little pale and America was working hard to minimize a limp.

"All things considered, I'm glad you grabbed the child, but my god does my arse hurt," England said with a genuine laugh, but even that was spoiled by the obvious tinge of discomfort in his voice.

America snorted, frustrated and disappointed, and England put a gentle hand on his arm.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine," America lied through a weak, forced smile. "Just whacked my knee real good. But I'm fine. Let's just go home."

The rest of the evening was spent in near silence as England sat awkwardly on an ice pack, and America propped his leg up, brooding and cursing his bad luck. He was running out of days to make his magical moment appear.

* * *

"I think that just about does it, don't you?"

America helped England down off the ladder, the final ornament placed, and moved it out of the way so they could stand back and admire their work. They'd put off decorating the Christmas tree for a few days so they could both get over their unfortunate ice rink injuries. America was secretly more glad for the time to heal his bruised ego and come up with yet another backup plan. They'd spent the afternoon decorating the giant tree, gently bickering about whether white or multicolor lights were better and optimum ornament placement, singing along to the old Christmas songs on the radio and sticking tinsel into each other's hair. Now, with the tree overflowing with lights and bursting with color, it seemed that nothing could ruin the atmosphere.

"It looks fucking awesome!" America crowed, slinging an arm over England's shoulder and kissing his cheek. It earned him a slight jab in the ribs, but England gave into the cuddling eventually, slipping his arm around America's waist with a humming sigh.

"I think you may have overdone it on size, but I can't deny that it's stunning."

"Nah. Go big or go home."

England snorted at that, but hugged America tighter, resting his head on his shoulder. They stayed like that for few moments, close and silent, England gazing contentedly at the tree and America stealing as many glances at him as he could. He wasn't nearly as nervous as his previous attempts, less sick and more filled with warm, squishy butterflies. Which was kind of gross, but at least he wasn't sweating or hyperventilating or limping this time. Things were looking up, and the time was right.

Just as he was about to start the well-thought out, ultra romantic speech he'd spent the last three days writing in his head, England straightened and took a step back.

"Hmmph."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's just… is it crooked?"

"What, the tree?" America looked it up and down, then leaned over to try and see it from England's perspective. "Are you sure we didn't just put the lights on crooked?"

"Oh, _you_ absolutely did put them on crooked," England teased, "but look at the trunk."

America squinted and tilted his head a few times, then stepped back.

"Son of a bitch, you're right."

"I mean, it doesn't matter—"

"No, I can fix it."

"Why bother? It's hardly noticeable."

America let it go, but he knew the imperfection would bother him too much. Everything had to be perfect, and if that meant waiting a few more minutes to wiggle a tree around, it would be well worth it. He rolled up the sleeves of his sweater and got down on the ground, careful not to disturb any ornaments as he slid as far under the branches as he could and began messing with the tree stand.

"Listen, if I'm going to put this baby on Instagram, I can't have it leaning."

"You're ridiculous. That thing is too heavy."

"Who do you think you're talking to?" America grunted, working at one of the screws.

"Right, excuse me, Mr. Macho."

"Just tell me when it's straight."

"Alright, but I think this is ridicu— AAHHH!"

America had knocked too aggressively into the base as he tried to adjust the screw, and in a moment that seemed to last forever in slow motion, the tree pitched too far forward. There was a loud whoosh and then jingling crash as the tree came down across the living room and landed half on the sofa. America just managed scramble out of the way before he could get knocked in the head by the feet of the metal tree stand, but England hadn't been so lucky.

England had all but disappeared except for one leg sticking feebly out from the beneath the mass of branches, the rest of him devoured and pinned to the couch. It would have been hysterical if America hadn't felt so awful that he'd managed to ruin everything yet again.

"Holy shit, are you okay?"

"Fine," came the muffled, slightly strained voice. "Just hurry and get it off me."

America started tilting the tree back up, a few ornaments falling off and shattering. By the time he got it stable and back in the corner, England was standing on wobbly legs, picking needles off of his clothing and shaking tinsel out of his hair.

"Are you hurt?" America asked as he rushed to him and checked England once over, cupping his cheek gently.

"Honestly, I'm fine," England said, laughing. "Much softer landing this time, but now I'm itchy as sin."

It took America a few moments to believe that England genuinely wasn't mad, but he still felt guilty.

"I'm so sorry, England. Really, I am."

"I'm _fine_. Really. It's sort of funny, actually. No harm done," England said, patting America reassuringly on the chest. "Can't say the same for the tree, but that doesn't look too bad, either."

America turned to look at the tree. Other than a few fallen ornaments, there didn't appear to be much damage. Still, America felt that all too familiar disappointment weighing him down as yet another perfect moment had been ruined.

"C'mon. We'll clean up this glass, plug the lights back in, straighten up a few branches, and it will be good as new. Ready for Insta-whatever." England hugged America from behind, chin propped on his shoulder. "The star is terribly crooked now, but I think we should leave it. Safer that way."

America sighed and looked at England, crossing his arms over his and squeezing his hand gently. England was smiling, and America wished he could match his unaffected state. But the sick, sinking feeling of yet another failure sat heavily in his gut. Still, he did the best he could to muster up a ghost of a grin and swallow back his frustration.

"You're the best."

England gave him a brief peck on the lips, then gingerly stepped his way around the little piles of broken ornaments.

"I think I'll be shaking pine needles out of my hair for days."

* * *

After that, America gave up. The little black box was returned to the little black bag and that was shoved into the closet once again. It wasn't that he'd changed his mind any. If anything, the last couple of weeks had reaffirmed that England was the love of his life. Even in the middle of the disasters America seemed to attract, England had stayed so comforting and understanding, which made America see and appreciate him in a whole new light.

No, America wanted to marry England more than ever. He just didn't want to plan any more proposals. If he couldn't give England the romantic, unforgettable moment that he deserved to be spoiled with, America could wait. He decided he would rather enjoy the rest of their time together without the pressure of perfection, and try again with a better plan. It was a retreat, but not a surrender.

The day before Christmas was spent in loving chaos as America took it upon himself to at least get the perfect Christmas Eve dinner right. He did most of the actual cooking, but England proved a willing and efficient prep cook. Chopping and measuring England could handle, but he was uniformly banned from touching any appliances or adding any of his special "flair" to any of the recipes. The result was a wonderful meal, complete with candlelight and more than one bottle of wine.

They ended up snuggled together on the sofa, happily full and maybe a little buzzed, enjoying the soft light of the tree in the dark and the comfortable presence of one another. The last bits of a log flickered and glowed in the fireplace, and England shifted around until he was nearly laying on top of America, arms pulled in tight between them and head on his chest. America rubbed a few slow circles on his back.

"Falling asleep?"

"No, just cold."

"Well, how about I finish the dishes and you go upstairs and start a bath?"

England turned his head to look up at America, barely hiding an impish smile through his faux-shocked expression.

"You're volunteering to do dishes?"

"In exchange for you being naked in the tub, yeah."

At that, England rolled his eyes and buried his face in America's sweater, shaking his head and inhaling slowly.

"Fair enough. But let's stay like this for a few moments more."

America combed his fingers through England's hair, happy under his warmth and weight. A sudden giddy feeling shot through his stomach, and America wondered if England could feel his racing heartbeat. He went from warm to hot in an instant, the urge to laugh and cry seemingly coming out of nowhere, but having everything to do with the gorgeous person in front of him. Caught off guard and overwhelmed, America's mouth moved faster than his brain, but slower than his heart.

"And while I'm thinking about it, how about marrying me?"

England was impossibly still for a moment, and America forgot how to breath.

"What?" he said, sitting up and turning to America with an unreadable expression in the dim lighting.

There was no point in being cautious any more. It was out there, the proposal had been made. It wasn't what America had thought it would be, had wanted it to be, but a sudden revelation struck him and obliterated any care he had. His search for the perfect moment had been useless because he'd taken for granted the ways in which every moment with England was amazing. Not perfect, not always pleasant, but always right.

"Marry me. I've been trying to ask you this whole time, but things kept getting messed up. I have a ring and everything, I just—" America couldn't slow himself down, leaning forward to grab onto England's upper arms. "But that doesn't matter now. I love you. I love you more than anything. And I want us to be together forever. Marry me?"

England winced like he was in pain, and America thought he'd messed up again. But then England was grabbing onto him, pulling him closer, hands in his hair.

"You idiot," he choked out, and kissed America with such need that America had zero doubt what his answer would be even before England pulled away, touched their foreheads together and whispered, "Yes."

The ring in the closet didn't matter. The dishes in the sink didn't matter. The broken ornaments, the bruises, the rained-out plans, the idealized nonsense America had conjured up— all of it disappeared.

All that mattered was the present, sure even in its chaos. As they held each other, America thought that he couldn't wait to live every messy, unplanned, loving second of what was to come. That was the real meaning of perfection.


End file.
